Survive
by StayClose
Summary: Survival is hard. Especially out here, alone in the freezing wilderness. No people, no phones, no electricity, no GPS. Maybe this is the end of the world, I don't know. It sure as hell feels like it. But I want to survive.


_Note: And I thought the Saint's Row fandom was small. Anyway, here's a thing._

_P.S. The longest I've survived in game is ten days and three hours. I've never found the rifle. This was inspired by me thinking how lovely it would be to find it and not have to duck inside everytime I hear barking. Fecking wolves._

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><p>Hands shaking, heart racing, I slam the cabin door behind me and lean against it. A flurry of snowflakes settles around my boots, chased in behind me on the wind. I close my eyes and force myself to breathe.<p>

'Dammit. Goddamn it!'

I'm talking to myself. Mine is the only human voice I've heard since the plane crash-nineteen days and four hours ago. I measure my survival in hours now.

I open my eyes and move from the door, unsling the rifle from my shoulder and place it reverentially down on the workbench in front of me, although I feel like throwing it across the room.

The rifle had locked up on me, misfired, right when a pair of bright hungry eyes had turned in my direction. The hollow 'click' only seemed to anger the wolf more. I hang my head and exhale sharply. I've become too reliant on this thing, this weapon. Too cocky. A second bullet put a hole in its skull. That was too close. Too damn close.

A fire first, and then I'll take a look at the gun. There's a stove nearby, already stocked with fragrant hardwood and tightly bound tinders made from old newspapers, so I don't waste time building a fire when my hands are stiff with cold. I take off my rucksack and place it on the floor, digging through a few items to find a pack of matches. I store them in a candy wrapper to try and keep them as dry as possible. Everything I've learned out here, I've learned the hard way.

The kindling lights quickly, I'm getting good at this. The flames leap into life and I smile, but there's a bitter edge. Simple pleasures like warmth, unspoiled food, and the occasional cup of herbal tea being the only relief from a constant harrowing battle to stay alive.

I pull off my gloves and stretch out my fingers in front of the fire. Two on my left hand and one on my right are missing their tips, eaten by frostbite on that first freezing night. I forget while the gloves are on, and the sight of them still surprises me. Sometimes the missing parts itch, late at night, when I'm too cold or hungry to sleep. I remember hearing about that happening to amputees. Never thought I'd know what it feels like. A maddening, burning itch that can never be scratched.

'Shit, pull yourself together, woman.'

Me again, muttering to myself to stay sane. I'm not sure how I'd react if I met another survivor now. Shoot them and take all their stuff? Possibly. It's a hard life out here.

Shaking my head, I rummage through the pack on the dusty wooden floor. So dusty. I miss my maid. I miss my beautiful apartment in Ottawa. Maybe out there the world has continued as normal, and I'm stuck in this frozen hellhole in the Northern wilderness**. **Maybe**.** It's a thought worth holding onto. A tiny flickering hope that this isn't actually the apocalypse, but some grim character-building experience I can share at dinner parties when this is all over. I ignore the nagging voice at the back of my mind that reminds me that every radio and every landline phone I've found so far has been dead. That every person I've found so far has been dead.

From experience, I know the fire will last about an hour or so. Enough time to boil up some melted snow, to make it safe.

'Water, water, everywhere, and not a drop to drink...' I sing as I pour it in.

I read about dysentery in one of the survival books I found in a cabin on a hill. I'd rather have my throat ripped out by one of those feral wolves than die like _that_.

The water should start bubbling soon. I need to look at the rifle while there's light coming in from the windows and from the grill of the stove. I pick it up and examine the trigger. Ah, who am I kidding? I have no idea what I'm doing, I've never owned a gun before. I suppose it needs cleaning… or oiling? Fuck, what if I break it?

It was a game-changer, finding this gun. Before I found it I had to sneak around outside, constantly alert for the sounds of howling and the harsh barks of those creatures. I always thought wolves weren't meant to attack people, but I've seen the evidence on enough frozen corpses to know that's not true. Bodies with ragged wounds, sprays of blood frozen into arcs of crystalline rubies around them.

Then I found the rifle. The hunted became the hunter. I haven't wasted any ammo on the deer around here. Rabbit and fish suit me well enough. No, the rounds have been saved for the black beasts that roam the woods and the frozen lake of my prison. Suddenly I had power, my movements were no longer dictated by these bloodthirsty animals. I felt strong, in control for the first time in weeks. I may have wept a little.

I turn the rifle over in my hands. There might be a book in here that will help me, a manual. God, I miss the internet. A quick Google on my smartphone would give me all the answers I need and more. But that's dead too.

A thorough search of the cabin yields nothing of use, and I'm back at the workbench, the fire burning low. I chew my rough, chapped lips and ponder my predicament. I can't risk taking it apart without knowing how all the parts fit back together. I can't. It's back to being cautious for me, but I won't run. I have to trust it will fire when it needs to or I'll never leave.

My stomach grumbles and I glance at the stove. I add another log and stoke the flames, deciding to warm up some soup. My approach to a healthy diet has been radically overhauled since the crash. Now it's all about the calories. Candy, peanut butter, condensed milk are top of my list. If I ever found a jar of mayonnaise I would probably slurp through the lot with a spoon. Oh, if the girls from my Bikram yoga class could see me now.

I grab a can of tomato from the counter on my left, and start to open it. The can opener was another game-changer, albeit on a slightly more subtle level to the rifle. No more hacking at the lids with a knife for me, no sir. I was opening them like a civilised person, pretending the world hadn't ended and forgotten about me.

With a crackle, a large burning ember spits from the stove, making me jump back.

'Shit!'

I stare at the blood on my hand.

'Nononono...'

The wound is deep, the lid of the can having sliced through the meat of my palm when I jumped. Dinner can wait. Blood drips on the floor as I search through my rucksack, looking for the rudimentary first aid kit I've managed to put together. I pull it out and open a half-full bottle of antiseptic. Gritting my teeth in anticipation of the pain, I pour some of the dark liquid over my hand.

'SONOFABITCH!'

Yeah, that hurt. I start to shake. It makes if difficult to replace the cap of the bottle, but I manage it. I can't waste a drop. I wrap a homemade bandage around my hand, binding it tightly to slow the bleeding. A hiss escapes from between my teeth. I think the bandage might have been a pair of socks once.

Icy apprehension weighs in my stomach like a lead brick. I ran out of antibiotics when I lost the ends of my fingers. Painkillers too but they're not essential. It's getting dark outside. The cut across my palm is throbbing in time to my heartbeat. It feels hot. I know I need to move on, keep searching the abandoned cabins and huts scattered throughout the woods. I did _not_ narrowly survive getting eaten today to die from an infection. I need to find more antibiotics.

I warm up the soup. As much as I want to get going, another thing I've learned is never to waste a fire. The thick red soup has an acidic taste, and the butterflies in my belly are tightening my throat and making it hard to swallow.

'Stupid, stupid,' I mutter between mouthfuls.

Just like that, with one thoughtless move, life and death hangs in the balance. How on Earth did we manage to make it to the Industrial era?

'Most didn't,' I remind myself.

The soup is finished, and I wash it down with a few sips of boiled water. The rest of the water goes into the bottles that are stashed inside my pack, followed by the matches, and the first aid kit goes on top before I zip it closed.

My right glove only just fits over the bulky bandage on my hand. I shrug the rucksack onto my shoulders and pick up the rifle. I open the cabin door and peek outside. The biting wind brings instant tears to my eyes, which I quickly blink away. There's probably an hour of daylight left.

Wish me luck.


End file.
